The Prices We Pay
by Teal Huskie
Summary: Vash has some trouble in a bar. A man seeking revenge goes out of control and Vash gets hurt. What happens then? Is the $$60,000,000,000 man finally done for? ....R for language and violence. R&R please. ^^;


"BASTARD!!"  
  
An intoxicated Vash spun around, squinting his doubled vision at a well tanned, bulk of a man several feet away. "Hynn?" he hummed. Vash had been leaving the saloon when the man approached him. He had been staring at Vash throughout the night, causing an uneasiness which made Vash drink extra hard, despite wanting to remain alert.  
  
"You," the man said gruffly, "you killed my family, Stampede!"  
  
The bar fell silent except for murmurs, the people all turning to stare at the two men.  
  
Vash smiled cheerily. "You must have the wrong person, sir! I'm not Vash-" "SHUT UP!" the man roared. "Playing the innocent fool won't save you now! I've devoted my whole life to tracking you down, like so many others, but where they failed, I will SUCCEED!" The angry, ebony haired male pulled a silver handgun from his cloak and fired at the surprised blonde. The crowd around screamed and many lurched for the floor or behind tables, almost expecting the assaulter to fire upon them next.  
  
Vash staggered back step by step as each of six shots pierced through red coat and leather into the pale flesh beneath; one in the shoulder, one ricocheting off his robotic left arm, three to the chest. The last silver bullet buried itself directly under his ribcage.  
  
The blonde outlaw swayed, wrapping his arms around himself. He grit his teeth at the massive explosion of pain throughout his body. He had not expected the man to pull anything that quick. The alcohol had dulled his senses, and apparently his judgment as well.  
  
"S...sor-ry.." Vash croaked. Already, blood rose in his throat, filling his mouth with its metallic flavor; the crimson life seeping through his jacket, leaving darker red splotches in the fabric. His eyes began to water, the sting too much.  
  
The gunman stood, numbly aware of what he had done.  
  
And then Vash the Stampede, the Sixty Billion Double Dollar Outlaw and Humanoid Typhoon in all his glory, fell sideways, the scene passing in slow motion; his slender, leather and coat encased form landing on the cobblestone floor of the bar with an impossibly loud thunk. He hit, and his head lolled to the side limply.  
  
People scattered, edging towards the door. The barmaids had long since fled into the back room, and the owner of the bar was unluckily out of town.  
  
"Vash the Stampede." the wicked gunman hissed, striding forward, "Before I kill you I want you to know I have no concern over your silly little bounty..." People whispered in the tiny crowd. 'Little' bounty...? "I only wish to fulfill my revenge... I also want you to know my name, before you die. It seems fitting. My name is Jeremy Whits." He stopped, now standing before the down blonde, who had horrible rattling sounds echoing inside his throat as he struggled for breath that refused to come easy. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"  
  
Vash managed to roll so he laid sprawled on his back, gasping for breath. Tears rolled down his face, and he gave no answer.  
  
"Answer me, damn you!" the man snarled, kicking the helpless outlaw in his injured side. This provoked a weak yelp. "Why won't you repent!? I hate you! Do you hear me!? SAY SOMETHING!" He moved to kick him again, but a young girl moved bravely forward.  
  
"Stop it!" She held up her arms in a defenseless gesture. "You've made a horrible mistake! This can't be the man you are after!" Whits gave her a questioning look, but never lost the angry spark in his gaze. "This man... this sweet, gentle man has been in our town for the past few days.. I.. I don't know where he came from, or what his plans are, but I do know this: Every afternoon, I saw him go out to the playground, and play with the children.. Tell me..." A tear dropped from her cheek. "..tell me you don't think the feared outlaw would do such a thing?" She pointed to her left side at Vash, who had begun to shake and writhe, his face twisting into a mask of agony.  
  
Whits appeared thoughtful. "But... there could be no mistakes.. He looks just like him.. Everything I've ever heard.."  
  
"Looks aren't everything.." the girl, Sarina, said softly.  
  
A look the perfect mixture of terror and horror crossed Whits' face as the impractical dawned on him. "No.. but.." He looked down at Vash in panic. The blonde had gone still, trails of blood leading from the corners of his mouth. Tears still streaked from jeweled, aquamarine eyes that stared blankly at the ceiling.  
  
"I-I-I.. What have I.." The blood left Whits face as he stuttered. Unrestricted tears began to blur his vision. "But..." There were no more 'buts' left. None rational, anyway. Had he actually gotten sunk so far in his past that he shot to kill an innocent?  
  
"This wasn't supposed to happen!" he cried, "Why did you have to be someone else!?" He dropped to his knees beside the outlaw miserably, not realizing that it was in fact the correct target after all; the blonde did not deserve any of the revenge-seekers' anger though, because nothing that had happened was ever completely his fault. Slowly, Vash's head turned to the side. He watched Jeremy Whits silently. The black-haired man seemed to have taken him for dead, so Vash cleared his throat. Blood gurgled in his mouth as he did so, but he ignored it, instead watching the guilty man in front of him.  
  
Whits' head snapped up, and then he looked down. "Thank the gods! A- are you.. okay?"  
  
The $$60,000,000,000 man blinked. Of course he was not okay! He opened his mouth to speak, but crimson flowed down his chin. He shut his mouth again and opted to shake his head faintly.  
  
Sarina burst through the saloon doors with the town Sheriff and a few nurses carrying a stretcher accompanying her - she had raced out after speaking to Whits.  
  
"You're going to be okay, buddy." Nurse #1 said reassuringly as they hefted Vash (which proved to be a difficult task) onto the stretcher. Vash only nodded absently, his vision finally fading. The last thing he saw was the officer leading a solemn Whits away in cuffs.  
  
Everything went black.  
  
The next morning Whits awoke in his lonely cell, looking dejected. He couldn't believe what he had done. He had begged the Sheriff to give him word from the Hospital of how the man was. So far nothing was heard.  
  
As if some psychic twist of fate, the Sheriff strode up at Whits' last thought. He scratched his head thoughtfully. "I'm here to tell ya... that guy in red apparently disappeared early this morning - around 4 AM. None of the staff saw him leave. They won't believe it either, in the shape he was in. Some say he went off to die in peace..." he trailed off, his eyes hard as he watched for Whits' reaction. The younger man looked about to cry. The officer's gaze softened. A little bit. "Don't worry though, the nurses said a bunch of gauze and bandaging things were missing from his room when they got there. The bed was made, everything was put in a tidy pile, and all his clothes were gone. By chance, one of the janitors had to make a trip to the dry cleaner's for some laundry - one of the patients got sick. The owner mentioned out of the blue that a young blonde had limped in like an old man to get a big red coat washed clean of blood stains. He'd found it peculiar. Obviously it was him. It's quite remarkable really."  
  
Whits let out a long, shallow sigh. After a few moments of silence with the Sheriff watching him, he spoke, "Thank you very much for telling me all this.. I.. I never meant to hurt anyone..." he winced. "I really thought he was the real thing. It surprised me that he was getting drunk, though, I gotta admit.." "Maybe you should just stay low, son. Going around shooting people just because they look like an outlaw is not a good idea." the Sheriff said sternly before turning and walking back to his desk across the room.  
  
Whits settled down on his tiny inmate bunk and drifted into an uneasy sleep...  
  
  
  
He woke shortly upon hearing a knocking noise. Opening his eyes he saw the fuzzy image of a paper being dropped through the barred window. Everything went quiet. Slowly, the boy rose and fetched the folded paper. He stared at it in his hand for several minutes in silence. His name was scrawled on the top; "Jeremy Whits." Not many in this town knew his first name, which made him wonder...  
  
He carefully unfolded the paper, swallowing as his throat went dry.  
  
Well, it wasn't a bomb, which was a good thing.. Whits wondered if bombs that small could be made, in the first place. Hm.  
  
It wrote: 'You were right the entire time. I couldn't deny it. Trust me when I say it's not the first time.  
  
I hope you learn something. It would have been  
  
horrible if it had been someone else after all.  
  
I also wanted you to know that what that young girl -wasn't it Sabrina? Something like that..-said about  
  
me was true. I'm not who you think I am. The  
  
things in the past that happened were horrible.  
  
I blame myself for July, and I wish I could change  
  
it, but I can't. I hope you get what I'm saying.  
  
-Vash T. S.  
  
Whits was left to gape. He refolded the letter and put it safely in his pocket.  
  
So he had been right....  
  
Outside of town, Vash stood, slightly crooked, and complete with orange sunglasses. Underneath his black bodysuit his wounds were wrapped as tightly as possible to ease the pain for the long trek across the desert to the next town. He could just imagine what people would say once he told them what delayed his arrival.. Short, angry, insurance girl people in particular. Maybe he would just take his time, enjoying the peace, and use his injuries as an excuse...  
  
~Sakana no Owari; 1637 words  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun, I only worship it. Jeremy Whits was original, and is mine, if I want him. Stuff © to appropriate people 2002.  
  
A/N: Well? How was that little random thing? I hope it didn't scare you too bad... Angst is a tough job, but somebody has to do it. ^^; Sometimes things we do, and sometimes don't even mean to do, can hurt people, and those people will never forget it, because it changed their lives significantly. They become lost. That is the price we pay.  
  
Don't forget to R&R and tell me if it was pointless, dramatic, priceless, indescribable, distinct, or just plain crappy..  
  
Love ya, Tealie/Fishie/Kristi 


End file.
